The cloud whale

LIV CHARIS CHRISTELSOHN, 2021

She remembers the clouds. How they twist and swirl, form shapes and stories, how they paint cotton white lullabies on the sky. Until they drift apart again to make room for something new. 
The big people don’t seem to look at the sky quite often. They miss all the wonder, soft and mellow, right above their heads. They miss the animals living up there, how they chase each other in the wind, loose shape and take on new contours. Elephants taking a big blow of wind, scattering apart as a herd of flustered mice, slender giraffes transforming into sturdy trees and proud lions reshaping into vain, furry cats. 
She dreams about flying and digging her hands knuckle-deep into the clouds, she dreams about petting long legged giraffes and riding on proud lions through the crisp blue sky. 
She dreams a lot since the days got longer and her medication got adjusted to combat the pain. A vivid fiery pressure right behind her forehead. She looks at the hospital ceiling, all white and fibrous. Boring, she thinks to herself and buries her head in the stiff pillow, that always smells freshly washed but also like it doesn’t belong anywhere. To her it’s foreign, a scent of nothingness. At home her sheets smell like the lavender perfume of her mother, like chocolate and the neighbours cat, a one-eyed scary looking boy named Walter, who isn’t quite that scary really. He eats dried jerky straight from her hand and sleeps in bed with her sometimes.  She misses him. And she misses her sheets, the smell of home. 
She dreams about taking a walk on the clouds and looking down on earth, all the big people just tiny specks, looking like ants or something even smaller. She talks about her dreams, tells the nurses and the doctors. They all smile softly, but there is this underlying sadness, lingering behind their eyes. She can sense it and she knows the big people try to hide it away. They are strange. And they say strange things sometimes. 
Clouds are just water, the big people say for example. 
But she is a smart girl. She knows about the water cycle, how the seas heat up and evaporate into the sky, how the water condensates in cold air and forms clouds. But what does that mean anyway?
Walter for example is a scary cat because he only has three limbs and a piercing green eye, and at the same time he’s not scary in the slightest because he purrs and cuddles and eats straight from her hand. So can’t clouds be water and still something entirely different?
The big people laugh at her arguments and pet her on the head, like you do with a loyal dog, but they don’t understand. And maybe they don’t even want to. 
The pain in her head grows stronger, and summer comes around. The hospital room fills with the sweet smell of blossoming elderberry and lavender. It feels like her mother is hugging her all day long and she sleeps a lot and more calmly than ever.
Her dreams get more vibrant. For the first time she can feel the clouds under her fingertips, they are just as soft as she always imagined, almost like the cuddly cotton blanket she carried around as a child. The animals talk to her. They never did before but she is so overwhelmingly happy that they do now. 
A lion allows her to ride on his back and then she plays tag with a handful of joyfully squealing mice. She even pets a giraffe for the first, which bends its long, elegant legs and leans down towards her. We want to introduce you to someone, the giraffe says and bats her long eyelashes. Who is it, the girl wants to ask but it sounds like a surprise, so she keeps quiet. They walk for a while, through cotton forests and valleys, she sees grazing buffaloes and even mammoths, stegosaurians and big bird-like creatures she knows from dinosaur books, but whose name she has forgotten. They walk till it’s just clouds, she can’t even see the sky anymore. All blue disappeared. Now it’s just pillowy white as far as the eye can see.  Here we are, says the lion in a festive manner and pushes his head under her hand. She crawls him behind the ears till he purrs like Walter does sometimes. 
Then it happens.
A noise approaches, it sounds like waves crashing on the shore with irrepressible force. Louder and louder and for a brief moment it’s so loud her ears start ringing. And while she presses her hands against her ears to shield them from the noise, a giant – giant – whale rises from the sea of clouds in front of her. He is bigger than anything she has ever seen. And his eyes are so wide and dark, they remind her of bottomless black oceans. Only after closer inspection she sees the light dancing inside of them, like they possess all the stars of the universe. The whale starts talking slowly, with caution, and his voice echoes back from everywhere, almost like the whole sky is actually inside of him, like he swallowed all the clouds and he swallowed her as well and now his gentle humming voice is omnipresent. It could be quite scary but she isn’t afraid. The whale talks about the clouds and the animals and about hospitals and big people, about pain and life. And death of course, as it’s just a part of life. But his words slip away the moment they enter her mind. Somehow she doesn’t understand and at the same time she does. The whale is very wise, far wiser than all the big people combined, she thinks. And he is old. She feels like he is the oldest being she ever met. He must have been floating through these skies long before time was invented. Like he just exists since the beginning, whatever that even means. 
And he makes her a proposal. 
Life doesn’t just disappear, it travels far far away, the whale says. It searches for a new purpose somewhere in the depths of this universe. But not all life. Some like to stay. Especially the little ones. The people and animals that leave earth far too early. They like to look after their loved ones. To keep an eye on their family and friends and three legged cats and their old home, to make sure it always smells like chocolate and love and not like sorrow. 
You can come here as well if you want, little one. If the pain in your head spreads throughout your body and settles in your bones. If you can’t look at this boring hospital ceiling any longer. The big people won’t be mad at you, I promise. And please don’t be mad at them either. Although they can’t understand you. They don’t remember being little, that’s all. They forgot about the beings living up here and they don’t care for the stories my kingdom offers them, because they forgot how to read the sky as well. But that’s quite alright. I craft my stories for the little ones, you know. I prefer to take care of them. The big people are able to care for themselves. 
She listens carefully, quiet. It’s a nice idea, she thinks to herself. Being able to stay here or at least to come back someday. The whale lowers his tremendous lower jaw, as if he’s smiling at her and she reaches out to him with her tiny hands. The moment she touches the whale, feels his rough warm skin against her own, a wave of sadness and happiness, excitement and frustration, and everything at once, washes over her. 
Then she wakes up.
She dreams this dream every night from now on. And everytime the whale asks her if she wants to stay. The doctors are coming to her room more frequently and her medication dosage is getting stronger and stronger. The pain grows into her lungs. She hugs her mother tightly every evening now. Her neighbour visits one day, carrying Walter with him in a wicker basket and she cries a little as she pets his shaggy fur. His green eye twinkles knowingly. 
It’s the end of autumn and the hospital windows are closed most of the time. She can’t smell the world anymore. The scent of nothingness climbs back into her bed, holds onto the fabrics around her. She’s cold and she can’t keep her eyes open, the pain is too unbearable. She escapes into her dreams, where giant cloud whales float through the sky, she can ride lions and play with mice. She’s happy there and the pain can’t reach her. She doesn’t remember the last time she saw the hospital ceiling, it feels like weeks, months maybe. 
She remembers the big people. How they keep their sadness to themselves and how they know clouds are only water. How they build homes and careers, how they do big people jobs and talk in big people voices. How they live. Until they don’t anymore to make room for something new. 
She walks to the edge of the clouds, looks down on earth, all the big people just tiny specks, looking like ants or something even smaller. They don’t seem to look at the sky quite often. They miss all the wonder, soft and mellow, right above their heads. But she can see it, sees them. Her mother and Walter and her home and the friendly doctors and nurses and the hospital bed. 
She makes a decision.
It’s the first day of winter and the windows are painted with frozen flowers. She slips out of bed effortlessly, like she is weightless. A cloud that has strayed onto the ground. She doesn’t belong here anymore, she thinks. Her mother sleeps in the chair next to her bed, and holds the hand of a girl that isn’t there anymore. 
She opens the window. And of course he came, waiting for her patiently. 
It’s nice to finally meet you, he says. His voice is as humming and soft as it was in her dreams. He proclaims majestic, clouds might just be water, but I promise if you climb onto my back I will not let you fall and my clouds won’t either, little one. 

And so she does.